


Betweens

by weirdmilk



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, More nonsense, Snow, Sunburn, bittersweet fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdmilk/pseuds/weirdmilk
Summary: The September sun is mellow and orange, a juicy overhead pumpkin. It hangs low and comfortable - a quiet suggestion of darker, colder days around the corner. But right now, it’s warm enough for shirts with untied ties and rolled up sleeves, blazers slung over shoulders.Iwaizumi is asleep in the club room. Oikawa is blindingly awake in the club room. The sun moves slowly across the sky, and Iwaizumi’s skin is gold underneath it. Oikawa watches the changing shadows on Iwaizumi’s face and thinks about nothing in particular.A seasonal fic about the inbetween moments.





	Betweens

**Summer**

The summer is a time for ice in Oikawa’s glass, as he and Iwaizumi wilt like flowers in his room. The heat is oppressive. It's too hot to do anything enjoyable, if he wants to avoid getting horribly sunburned. His skin is paler than Iwaizumi’s, and frustratingly, he skips the tanning stage. He just cooks - red like a lobster.

He knows all this, but he still burns his skin at least once every summer. Iwaizumi and Oikawa are both lying on the floor, in the shade inside his room - the curtains drawn, and the fan pointed towards Oikawa’s pink face. Oikawa’s skin throbbing and needling so badly that he feels a little sick with it.

‘Ugh, this is the worst - how come you’re fine?’ Oikawa is very pink and very unhappy. Iwaizumi is tanned, and content in his lack of pain.

‘I’m just stronger than you in all ways,’ Iwaizumi tells him, very seriously. Oikawa groans and buries his face in the mats. ‘And because I don’t spend all my time flirting with girls on the beach.’

‘Not _all_ my time,’ Oikawa says, abashed.

‘How many numbers did you get today?’ Iwaizumi asks, slyly.

‘Seven,’ Oikawa says sadly.

Iwaizumi sniggers. ‘Worth it?’ They both know he’s not going to call any of them.

‘No,’ Oikawa says sadly, voice muffled by the mats.

‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ Iwaizumi says cheerfully. ‘Your ego will be the death of you.’

‘I think it’s already killed me,’ Oikawa wails. ‘Everything hurts. Even my _hair_ hurts. I didn’t even know you could injure your hair. Did you know that, Iwa-chan? You’ll have to take over my captaincy, and there’s no way you’ll be as good as me. No one will listen to you. Except for Mad Dog-chan. Because, well, he is how he is. And this is no good for my beauty.’

Iwaizumi is sniggering continuously in the corner, where he’s playing on his phone, looking absolutely concerned about Oikawa’s ghastly, red-hot impending death. ‘I’d be a great captain,’ he says, typing with his thumbs. Oikawa wonders idly who he’s talking to. ‘And don’t worry about your beauty, Oikawa.’

‘Iwa-chan!’ Oikawa says, touched.

‘There’s none of it to ruin.’

‘Captains have to have _charm_ ,’ Oikawa says darkly.

‘Well shit, someone better tell Irihata to get rid of you then,’ Iwaizumi says. ‘Idiot.’

‘Don’t be mean to me,’ Oikawa says, ‘I’m dying.’

‘You mustn’t speak ill of the dead,’ Iwaizumi agrees, ‘but no one said anything about the dying.’

‘Rude!’ Oikawa wails. His face feels tight, like it’s covered in glue. He’s too itchy and hot to say anything witty.

Iwaizumi looks up from his phone, and sighs. He gives Oikawa an appraising stare, and drops his phone to the side of him. He sighs again, and says, ‘Wait there, asshole.’

Oikawa wants to say, well, where am I going to go, idiot, look at me, but he’s too tired and cross and achy. So he just lies there, and does as he’s told.

Iwaizumi comes back with a tube of aloe vera gel from Oikawa’s bathroom. How did he even know it was there? Oikawa reassesses his idea of Iwaizumi as a guileless man. It turns out he’s a snooper, after all.

‘Come here,’ Iwaizumi says. Oikawa half scoots, half crawls over to where Iwaizumi’s kneeling. He ends up sitting cross-legged in front of Iwaizumi, who’s kneeling, so that he’s taller than Oikawa by a little bit. Iwaizumi’s tongue sticks out slightly as he squeezes the gel on his fingers. Oikawa wants to ask him how much concentration it takes for his chimp brain to remember how to squeeze a tube, but resists, because Iwaizumi is doing a nice thing.

His hands are gentle and cool as they smear the aloe vera on the end of Oikawa’s pink, peeling nose. He unbuttons the first button of Oikawa’s shirt, and rubs the gel over his clavicle, his neck, the top of his shoulders. Oikawa closes his eyes. He leans into the shock of coolness.

Iwaizumi draws back, taking his hands with him. He doesn’t look at Oikawa while he puts the tube down, staring at it for longer than he has to. Oikawa bites his lip. The air feels even more stifling, for a moment, but then Iwaizumi meets his eyes, and smiles, and the moment breaks.

‘Be more careful, idiot,’ Iwaizumi mumbles as he ruffles Oikawa’s hair. He hauls himself up and leaves the dark room. Oikawa, through his haze of discomfort, wonders whether Iwaizumi has gone home, but a few minutes later he returns, with two ice lollies, and one of Oikawa’s milk breads.

‘There,’ Iwaizumi says gruffly, placing an ice lolly next to Oikawa’s prone, still body. Oikawa pokes out a hand and takes it, like a suspicious animal.

‘Thanks, Iwa-chan,’ Oikawa says, pleased. ‘This is why you’re really the best after all.’

‘Don’t say things you don’t mean,’ Iwaizumi says, flicking him on his unburned hip.

  
**Autumn**

The September sun is mellow and orange, a juicy overhead pumpkin. It hangs low and comfortable - a quiet suggestion of darker, colder days around the corner. But right now, it’s warm enough for shirts with untied ties and rolled up sleeves, blazers slung over shoulders.

Iwaizumi is asleep in the club room. Oikawa is blindingly awake in the club room. The sun moves slowly across the sky, and Iwaizumi’s skin is gold underneath it. Oikawa watches the changing shadows on Iwaizumi’s face and thinks about nothing in particular.

Iwaizumi, on the opposite side of the room, is leaning against the wall, tie slung loosely around his neck. His hair is a little subdued, sticking to his forehead - the club room catches the sun like flies in honey. The first two buttons on Iwaizumi’s shirt are open. But why would Oikawa care that the first two buttons on Iwaizumi’s shirt haven’t been closed, what’s it to him? It’s nothing to him. He can believe it, if he doesn’t look at the golden triangle of skin underneath Iwaizumi’s collar. So he won’t look, and he won’t be made a liar.

The door swings open, and Oikawa catches it with his hand to stop it thumping the wall and waking Iwaizumi. Hanamaki steps inside, gives Oikawa a strange look, and an even stranger one when Oikawa holds a finger to his lips, frantically gesturing towards the sleeping Iwaizumi. He’s caught. The fly in honey, again.

Hanamaki’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead, and he fixes Oikawa with a long, steady gaze that’s pitying and grim at the same time. Oikawa looks right back - two parts defiant, three parts hopeless.

Hanamaki crosses the room silently, cat-like on light feet. He picks up a sweater tossed in a corner. He holds it up to Oikawa as an explanation. Oikawa rolls his eyes, his shame and mulishness making him impatient: yes, fine, get out of here.

Hanamaki walks back over to the door, sweater in hand. He turns back at the last second, as he touches the handle. His eyes flicker, again, between Iwaizumi - slumped, oblivious and happy for it, and Oikawa - tense, face fierce and angry as he watches Hanamaki assess the spaces between them.

Hanamaki gives Oikawa a grave salute before closing the door gently, so that it doesn’t make a sound. Oikawa hears his steps get quieter as he gets further away. Oikawa puts his head on his knees, and allows himself to be overwhelmed by it all, just for a moment. The hot stuffy air kisses the back of his neck. Dust floats in the air.

Iwaizumi stirs. He opens his eyes. Oikawa rearranges his body into something whole and strong. Iwaizumi says, ‘How long was I out?’ His voice sounds rough.

Oikawa says, ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t watching.’

Iwaizumi grunts. ‘I guess we’d better go home,’ he says. ‘Did you get any work done?’

‘Loads,’ Oikawa lies, ‘because I’m so clever, everything is just so easy for me.’

Iwaizumi is too languid for violence, so he just rolls his eyes, with a muttered ‘Still shitty, though.’ Oikawa smiles vaguely, mouth closed. He stands up with a grace he doesn’t deserve. He picks his bag up from the table next to him, shoving his books into it. He holds out a hand to Iwaizumi, still slumped against the wall, knees drawn up a little, arms resting on them.

‘I can do it,’ Iwaizumi grouses, and pushes himself off the floor. Oikawa drops his hand back down by his side, as though burned.

  
**Winter**

The February sky is heavy with white, a cotton sheet draped over the city. The snow is coming down fast and thick. Oikawa watches it from his window. He’s eighteen, but he’s pleased. It makes him feel younger, anyway: the knowledge that in a few hours Iwa-chan will arrive, wearing an awful woolly hat on top of his awful hair, and that any minute after that, they’ll do what they always do on snow days. They build snowmen, first, and then after their hands are numb with cold, they go inside for something warm to drink. After that, they’ll go back outside, and someone will make a snide remark, or flick someone’s ear, and it’s off to the races - snowballs, ice down each other’s necks, breathless, wheezing laughter until someone - usually him - raises a white flag.

Right now, in this moment, though, it’s early. Or late, he supposes. Everything’s bathed in a quiet, orange glow. The snow on the street is untouched. Tomorrow it will turn grey and slushy, but right now it’s perfect.

His phone vibrates.

From: Iwa-chan!!!!!! <3 <3  
Look outside

Oikawa looks outside his window. Iwaizumi’s standing there, an incongruous dark shape in all the white. Oikawa’s heart relocates to his throat, without his permission. He thinks, oh, don’t spring this on me, Iwa-chan - give me some warning -

He opens the window, and whisper-shouts down to him, ‘I’m going to call the police and tell them there’s a strange man on my street.’

‘Yeah, it’s you,’ Iwa-chan hisses back. ‘Come down.’

Oikawa doesn’t have a choice. He throws a coat on over his t-shirt and sweatpants. He puts on his favourite boots - brown, leather and strong. He spends more time than is necessary tying the laces neat and even. He pulls on the bow a few times, just to check its strength. He tiptoes outside. The door shuts with a little click.

‘Iwa-chan,’ he says, as a greeting.

‘Yeah,’ Iwaizumi says, grinning. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘No wonder you’re so ugly,’ Oikawa says, but his heart isn’t in it. He watches the sky.

Oikawa picks his way over to Iwaizumi, but the snow’s deep, and he nearly trips. Iwaizumi catches him with one arm, says, ‘Careful, nerd.’

Oikawa steadies himself immediately - he’s an athlete, after all - but Iwaizumi’s arm stays around his shoulders - a heavy weight, a reminder of all the things he can’t have. Oikawa allows himself to feel it, for a moment. He glances over at Iwaizumi’s face, and his lips are wet, as though he just licked his lips, or bit them, or something. There’s a nervousness in his expression that doesn’t meld with the calm, gentle world around them.

Iwaizumi lets go of Oikawa’s shoulder, and swallows, the motion of his throat visible even through the thick cotton of his hoodie. He steps back a few paces.

‘What?’ Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi looks at him, head tilted, considering. He says, ‘What would you do if I kissed you?’

‘Right now?’ Oikawa asks, which is probably the wrong response. He laughs out loud, an internal joke: there’s the appropriate answer, and the honest answer, and he still doesn't know how to respond. ‘Like - here?’

‘Yeah,’ Iwaizumi says. He watches Oikawa’s face.

Oikawa looks at the sky. It’s still sprinkling sugar onto the two of them. Iwaizumi has snowflakes settling on the seams of his hood, and on his shoulders, and on the zip, too. He can feel the cold around them, but it doesn’t feel bad; it’s just there.

‘I don’t know,’ is what he says in the end, and he hadn’t really decided what he’d say before he said it, but it’s the most honest thing he could have chosen.

‘Do you want to find out?’ Iwaizumi asks, and it’s barely audible, even though the world is silent and watchful, waiting with him.

Oikawa touches his own lip without being aware of the motion. He looks at Iwaizumi. It has to be some kind of joke. But Iwaizumi’s face is serious. Oikawa can’t look him in the eyes as he nods, once, then again, jerky, then again, as he says, ‘Yeah.’

Iwaizumi kisses him. Right there, right now - at three in the morning, on the corner that connects their streets. What happens is this: the world doesn’t end, and the snow keeps falling. They kiss as snowflakes dance, jittery and quick, as fluttery as Oikawa’s hands at Iwaizumi’s back, unsure if he’s allowed to touch, or if it’s just the snow, and the blanket of silence, and the fact that this might be the last snow they see before they leave, in the spring.

Iwaizumi has no fear: he wraps his arms tightly around Oikawa’s waist. Oikawa’s nervous hands finally flutter down onto Iwaizumi’s shoulders. They are big and solid under his palms. The streetlight above them bathes them both in a soft orange glow; Oikawa can see the colour through his closed eyes. He thinks that if he wasn’t in love with Iwaizumi before, then he is now that he knows what his slow, ruminations on kissing feel like. He thinks his life is probably ruined with that knowledge, but that’s fine: everything can go to hell, as long as Iwaizumi keeps his strong arms around his waist, anchoring him to the earth.

**Spring**

In its new, fresh breeze, the spring blows a series of firsts and lasts. Endings and beginnings.

Something old: Iwaizumi. Something new: Iwaizumi’s mouth, pressed hard against his, a shared secret. An ending: their club room - not theirs anymore, really, as they visit one last time to scout for any items they’ve forgotten about sometime in the past three years. There’s always been another chance to pick up a stray book, a tie, a pair of socks. Not anymore. A beginning: Iwaizumi kissing him hard and aggressive against the wall, face wet with tears, but a determined tilt to his forehead and strength underneath the shaking in his arms.

The door opens. They spring apart.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa, bags on their shoulders, impeccable uniform, appear in the doorway. They survey the obvious scene in front of them - Oikawa standing too far away from Iwaizumi, both breathing hard - and share a glance with each other. Oikawa frowns.

Matsukawa says, composed as always, ‘We’ve come to get our stuff.’

Oikawa smiles with teeth and says, ‘Of course,’ by which he means, what exactly did you see?

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything; he stands next to Oikawa with his arms folded, biting his lip, toeing at the worn, thready carpet.

Hanamaki collects a small bag of knee pads, finger tape, socks. He straightens up and says, ‘Captain.’ He nods at Iwaizumi. ‘Vice.’ His voice cracks on the last word. Iwaizumi is biting his lip harder.

‘Thank you, both of you,’ Matsukawa says. He looks serious. He means it. He doesn’t pick anything up. Maybe he’s already collected the items that got away from him, or maybe he’s just accepted their loss. Maybe he just wants to leave a part of himself in that room - to say: I was here, once.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa make to leave. Matsukawa leaves first, with a bow. Hanamaki pauses as he touches the door handle. He turns to the two of them, and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again without speaking. Instead, he simply bows, too, and smiles at them both. Oikawa knows what he’s seen, over the years, and even more moments that he hasn’t seen. Oikawa knows he is happy for them.

‘Let’s go home,’ Oikawa says.

‘Yeah,’ Iwaizumi agrees quietly. He entwines their fingers together. They walk out of the room like that - hands connected, heads inclined. The beginning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> weirdmilk @ tumblr
> 
> will i ever write anything that isn't bittersweet, transitional iwaoi? at least this one's short


End file.
